


You're a Terrible (Fake) Date

by possumhours



Category: Bleach
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Pining, a healthy serving but not overdone, grimmjows surprisingly good acting, ichigo and his emotional constipation against the world, probably anti seireitei propaganda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possumhours/pseuds/possumhours
Summary: Harribel repeated serenely, "Just five days of acting or sealed borders. Which is worse in the long run, Grimmjow?"Grimmjow's face didn't react beyond a singular twitch of his eye. A sign, perhaps, of an extensive rewiring occurring as he tried to reboot his brain from the sheer amount of rage he was processing.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 53
Kudos: 228





	1. This Week (This Week)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of This Kiss (This Kiss)*
> 
> I fully blame the Grimmichi discord for this one. But I'm having a lot of fun writing it. Just feels like something I can write mindlessly and laugh at sentences. I'll probably write this fic as a light breather while I'm also writing for the Big Bang, which I'm planning to be more angsty to challenge myself.
> 
> So, no real planned schedule on this one, but let me know which line you found funniest.

"You told the Soul Society treaty meeting _what_?!"

Ichigo didn't usually raise his voice at friends, especially at Nel. But some circumstances deserved exception. Notably, when he was almost positive that he'd misheard the sentence that came out of her mouth.

He'd come to Las Noches to get a fight out of Grimmjow, only to find Harribel and Nel waiting for him in the arrancar's place. Emergency meeting, they'd said. For one cold second, he'd thought something had _happened_ to Grimmjow. But, the burn of blue reiatsu on the edge of his awareness, out to the horizon, discounted that worry.

Nel winced, twiddling her fingers guiltily, "I sort of told the meeting that you and Grimmjow were dating? To get leverage on them not totally cutting us out of the living world?"

Ichigo gradually sank from his standing position back into one of the stone chairs. Didn't the arrancar have anything slightly softer? He was sincerely contemplating throwing all his tough image to the wind so he could throw himself dramatically on a fainting couch. Because all of Soul Society evidently thought he was dating _Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez_.

Harribel threw him a sympathetic look from the head of the table. Or, at least, he thought she did. It was difficult to tell with her mask concealing the whole of her lower face at times.

"Why didn't you say I was dating you, or Harribel, or any other arrancar that hasn't actively declared how badly they want to kill me?" Ichigo groaned into his hands.

Why, he thought to himself, why did the universe choose now? Approximately a week after Ichigo had a big gay crisis over the fact that he might, feasibly, like Grimmjow a little. Feelings that he'd resolved to bury under sand dunes. Because he was about eighty percent sure that Grimmjow would shift his efforts to kill Ichigo into warp speed if he found out.

Nel's eyes flicked over to Harribel, "Well, I'm taken. And when I couldn't think of anyone, I saw Grimmjow's hair out of the corner of my eye and panicked."

Ichigo paled, "Grimmjow was _there_? Is Soul Society in one piece?!"

"Yes," Harribel said calmly, "Although, I imagine the quincy ruins to the east are almost dust by now." She folded her hands as if she'd made a comment on the state of Hueco Mundo's unchanging weather rather than the volatile temper of her lieutenant.

Oh, this was so very bad.

Ichigo gave Nel a melancholy look, "He's absolutely going to try to murder me."

Nel raised a brow, "He already tries to do that."

"No, I'm pretty sure he'll succeed this time. Out of pure spite."

As if on cue, a seething gas-flame of blue malice materialized on the other side of the stone door. Ichigo held his breath in apprehension. Seconds later, the doors banged open with enough force to embed themselves in the walls. Dust clouded the air around a familiar figure with a sword preemptively thrown over a shoulder, foot still hoisted in the air.

"Honey, I'm fuckin' home!" A borderline deranged voice called out. Oh yeah, Grimmjow was taking Nel's lie really, _really_ well.

Ichigo winced as the dust settled. Grimmjow wasn't wearing his signature jacket or any shirt at all. The only thing on him was a tattered pair of hakama that he'd heard the arrancar refer to once as his 'demolition hakama'. He only got them out when he wanted to let loose without worrying about the state of his clothing afterward. There was a fine layer of bone-white grit dusting his blue hair. Wherever he'd been, it was rubble now.

Sharp arctic eyes gripped Ichigo's across the room. The teeth Grimmjow bared were caught somewhere between a grimace and a feral grin. Like he couldn't decide on which was more suitable.

Ichigo tried a friendly wave, "Hi, Grimmjow."

"Hi, get your fuckin' swords out, Kurosaki."

So much for diplomacy. Ichigo sighed. This was going to be a _long_ day.

Harribel merely hummed, "Tire him out a bit so we can discuss this further, yes?"

  
  


***

  
  


"You prick," Ichigo spit out a glob of blood, "Why do you have to take this out on _me_ , huh?" Nel patted his back sympathetically as she supported his weight, helping him hobble his way back through Las Noches. Again, they'd reduced each other to bloody messes, but more so with the addition of Grimmjow's wrath to the equation.

Grimmjow flipped him off, "Because you existing is my problem, you wet turd, fuck you!" He had a lot of gall for someone currently being bridal carried through the halls by the goddamn queen of Hueco Mundo. Ichigo had managed to get a tendon in his leg somewhere and was viciously glad for it. Despite Grimmjow's larger size, Harribel seemed entirely unbothered by carrying him.

Harribel glanced over her shoulder to roll one eye before adjusting her grip in a way that made Grimmjow hiss. He glared at the side of her face for a flash before refocusing on Ichigo again. Credit where credit was due as far as consistency went.

"Fine, sorry for breathing!" Ichigo responded sarcastically.

"You should be, no," Grimmjow snarled, "you _will_ be!"

It was not a shock to anyone when the two arrancar women set them up on opposite sides of the meeting table.

"Now," Harribel fluidly reseated herself at the head, "Let's talk about how this isn't the end of the world, shall we?" Her aqua-green eyes met Grimmjow's pointedly, who scoffed and folded his arms. But he didn't start arguing with her yet. There was a certain level of respect there, even if Grimmjow liked to pretend there wasn't. Ichigo doubted Grimmjow would've let Harribel literally carry him otherwise.

Yet, that didn't change the fact that she'd taken on a diplomat's tone.

Ichigo felt dread race up his spine, "You're…going to ask us to follow through on this crazy idea Nel came up within three seconds, aren't you?"

Nel, standing to Harribel's right, mouthed out, "Sorry."

Grimmjow remained petulantly silent, blood dripping obnoxiously off his mask fragment.

Harribel tilted her head, "Pretending to be close for a bit is a small price to pay to keep the borders open, wouldn't you agree? Much better than the alternative if you two want to continue your hobby of bloodshed." She rested her chin on her folded hands, "Is, say, five days really all that terrible in the grand scheme of things?"

"Five days?" Ichigo knew he was taking the bait, but curiosity won out.

Harribel blinked calmly, "Just enough time for me to arrange some other counterarguments against old men with too much time on their hands. Who tried to force a vote before Nel distracted them with some scandal worthy information."

Nel added, "If they find out I was lying too soon, they might try to reconvene to push their agenda through. As of now, they're too busy opening an investigation on your, um, relationship."

Grimmjow ground the teeth of his mask together, harsh enough that they creaked audibly.

Ichigo risked a glance at him before his eyes darted back to Harribel, "Am I going to get arrested? Is that what's happening?"

Harribel shook her head, "If you weren't their war hero, they might. But, considering your history, it would be extremely foolish of them to arrest you on something trivial, such as your love life. It would likely cause an uproar from the entirety of the Gotei Thirteen, well-liked as you are. Your substitute status also leaves you, technically, unaligned. The investigation will likely be a subtle attempt to see if you're selling me secrets, I'd imagine."

Ichigo scoffed bitterly, "Soul Society doesn't tell me shit!"

"Neither do I."

"Yeah, well, at least you're straightforward about _why,_ " Ichigo grumbled.

The creases around Harribel's eyes crinkled with wry amusement. It was no mystery that she enjoyed being considered more honest than her shinigami counterparts.

A fist slammed on the table as Grimmjow finally lost patience, "Get to the fuckin' point!" More than a few drops of crimson flew to mar the pristine white surface.

Nel rolled her eyes to the ceiling in the background, possibly searching for her own patience. Finding nothing of note, she dropped her gaze, "You specifically, Grimmjow, have been granted a five-day leave to spend with Ichigo in Soul Society."

Harribel repeated serenely, "Just five days of acting or sealed borders. Which is worse in the long run, Grimmjow?"

Grimmjow's face didn't react beyond a singular twitch of his eye. A sign, perhaps, of an extensive rewiring occurring as he tried to reboot his brain from the sheer amount of rage he was processing.

Ichigo's heart sank as he realized Harribel was _very_ good at making a convincing argument, especially with Nel as a backup.

This was going to be a long _week_.

  
  


***

  
  


Grimmjow eventually concluded he hated the idea of closed borders more than the idea of faking a relationship with Ichigo. And, as far as Ichigo went, the arrancar had dangled his own promise above his head to get him onboard. The one where Ichigo would fight him whenever he wanted, obviously.

Stepping away from the low whine of a garganta with one slouchy, grumpy arrancar in tow, Ichigo thought sarcastically to himself, _wow, I'm one lucky guy_. He'd be luckier to walk away from this experience without having a brain aneurysm.

The sun was setting in Seireitei when they stepped through their rip in reality. Vibrant reds and oranges bled through the sky, casting the pale walls around them in long, dark shadows. Motes of dust flickered in the light whenever a breeze sighed. The sweet sound of a bush warbler in the distance added to the peaceful atmosphere.

Which, of course, didn't mean shit to Grimmjow, who was squinting into the dying day with profound suspicion.

Thankfully, Grimmjow had left the demolition hakama back in Hueco Mundo to return to his black catsuit getup. It definitely brought the dial down on his feral, demented energy. Maybe that was the power of having most of his chest covered. Except for that deep V that Ichigo had always wondered was for showing off the scar he'd put there. He was too chicken to ask, in all honesty.

More distracting was how all the warm hues of light washing over them almost made Grimmjow's hair look lavender when backdropped. And cast his blue eyes a few shades darker, closer to an ocean abyss than the usual glacial waters. His mask cast a shadow that hid most of his mouth from view, save for the point of one disapproving fang.

Ichigo was acutely aware that he'd apparently rather wax poetic about Grimmjow's appearance than confront his current reality.

Really, he could spend infinite brain power watching Grimmjow murder glare at their surroundings, at the setting sun, at the clean streets, at the whispering shinigami, etc. It certainly would've been entertaining enough on an average day.

It did not alter the fact that they were currently holding hands.

There had been a massive argument beforehand about whose sword arm got to be free. (Grimmjow had won that one on the basis that Ichigo had two swords and didn't need his dominant hand free, actually.) One that Ichigo was desperately clinging to in his mind for a sense of normalcy.

And, _of course_ , Grimmjow wasn't fucking gentle either. He had Ichigo's hand in a steel grip that he was confident was striving to rearrange bones. Possibly damage his nerves away from ever holding Zangetsu again. It was a borderline hostage situation.

Honestly, Grimmjow looking murderous was fine. At this point, he had a reputation, and a little possessiveness probably was expected if he ever did manage to get into that sort of relationship. So, minimal actual acting was expected on his part other than looking at Ichigo with slightly less blood lust.

Ichigo, on the other hand, had no fucking idea what to do with his face. How the fuck did people in relationships act? He really hadn't set time aside to find a person to do that stuff with, even in the two years since the war. Did he smile? Should he keep his neutral scowl? Take a page out of Grimmjow's book until every shinigami staring at them ran away screaming down the street, so he didn't have to think about it?

God, they were so screwed.

Grimmjow whispered out of the side of his mouth, "I can hear your last brain cell shitting itself and dying from here, asshole. Fuckin' relax."

" _You_ relax!" Ichigo whisper yelled back.

"Ya see anyone being made into minced meat? I _am_ relaxed."

Grimmjow's fingers almost flexing in that way he did before he blackened his hands to claws suggested otherwise. But, since starting one of their schoolyard fights in public, thirty seconds after arriving, would shatter their already shit acting, Ichigo didn't comment further.

Instead, Ichigo just gave his sword calloused hand a firm squeeze before leading him down a vaguely familiar street, following a flare of well-known reiatsu more than actual memory. Grimmjow bared his teeth at every passerby that got too close, sending more than one person skittering to the walls in the narrow walkways.

Ichigo sighed, "Could you at least _try_ to pretend you're not unhinged? Like fake a smile or… something."

Grimmjow, to his credit, did smile in Ichigo's direction. In much the same way a predator shows their teeth to a meal, all sharp points in a sideways sneer sprawled across his face. A signature feral grin that didn't light up his eyes with the usual excitement. More of a grimace, caustically asking, ' _Oh? Is this what you wanted, dick for brains?_ '

Ichigo dropped the word suggestion out of his vocabulary.

Silently, he was thankful that the long shadows of the late day might be helping to hide just how stiff their limbs were. Because every shinigami they passed was doing a double-take and squinting at them. Not that he blamed them. Seeing Kurosaki Ichigo, war hero, holding hands with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, technically war hero (but mostly arrancar menace), was likely more than a little surreal.

"This isn't working," Grimmjow griped sharply before releasing his hand, "None of these bottom feeder assholes are buying this."

Ichigo opened his mouth to argue about what he suddenly couldn't remember. Because the next second, Grimmjow was slinging his arm across his shoulders, pressing their hips together with the sharp line of Pantera trapped between them. Clearly milking the measly two inches of height he had on Ichigo for all it was worth. Then, there were warm lips and the keen edge of a toothed mask pressing up directly against his ear.

Okay, now it definitely was a hostage situation.

Hot breath hissed out, humid and heavy, disturbing Ichigo's hair. Grimmjow rumbled out on that exhale, "I'm better at this than you. I'm going to spend the next five minutes of walking telling you all the fun ways I've thought of fuckin' gutting you for the last six hours." It was said in a low enough voice not to be eavesdropped by a passerby but audible enough to sound more than a little suggestive. Well done enough that if Ichigo hadn't caught the word 'gutting,' he'd think he'd been propositioned.

Sure enough, Grimmjow started detailing how someone could live without a large intestine, but not their small one. Which was _great_ because, apparently, the small intestine was about seventeen feet longer and an easier target, despite the name. Oh, but don't worry, depending on the disemboweling hand's angle, it was possible to get both at once. Ichigo would get to see both at once before he slowly bled out, wasn't that _fantastic_?

Welcome to serial killer radio.

Ichigo mentally gave himself a rather judgemental look in his mind's eye.

Leave it to Grimmjow to get competitive about fake dating. And still, find time in his day to get in a lecture about proper evisceration. But if it was a competition that Grimmjow wanted, Ichigo wasn't _not_ going to give it to him.

Fighting off the urge to lean away from Grimmjow, a reaction to someone in his space more than the content of his words, Ichigo reached up a hand to hold onto his waist. Because self-preservation was optional at this point.

Two things occurred. The first was Ichigo noticing how slim of a waist Grimmjow had despite being fairly muscular, which he immediately mentally slapped himself for. Secondly, Grimmjow himself stopped talking abruptly in the middle of his sentence. His head pulled back a few inches from Ichigo's to land a stare that burned against the side of his face like hot coals.

Belatedly, Ichigo, who had learned _some_ things about hollows since he began fighting Grimmjow, realized he'd broken an unspoken rule. Contrary to what shinigami thought, hollows didn't hate being touched. Some arrancar actually actively sought it out in each other, like in Nel and Harribel's case. But they always approached each other from the front or announced their intentions clearly. Ichigo had just done neither of those things. He had done neither of those things with an arrancar that he had _never_ seen get into anyone's space unless it was to draw blood.

This included the one incident where Ichigo had carelessly tried to give Grimmjow a friendly shoulder pat after a fight and gotten bit. Hard. Mask fangs and actual fangs sinking a good inch into his forearm level of hard. And getting Grimmjow to _let go_ had been its own negotiation. Still, the image of Grimmjow with blood in the teeth of his mask and his flashing, wary eyes had been lesson enough. Grimmjow didn't get into others' space, and he generally expected the same. Especially from Ichigo.

Well, not including today, at least. But, odd circumstances didn't count.

The hand that had been rested lightly in the middle of Ichigo's chest felt much sharper suddenly. Glancing down, Ichigo confirmed, yep, those fingers had claws now. They lined up in a circle of pinpricks against his ribs and sternum, already popping through the top layer of his shihakusho.

Ichigo slanted an eye at Grimmjow. "You know," he left a slight pause for the unspoken word fake, "dating is a two-way street, right? Sorry, but if you touch me, I might respond." He kept his tone steady, the one saved for actively discouraging a fight. Not that Grimmjow listened to it all the time.

Grimmjow's stony expression didn't shift at all save for his eyes narrowing.

Ichigo swung his head around, putting himself nose to nose with the arrancar. "Name one time, outside of a fight, I've actively tried to hurt you, much less do something shitty like sneak attack you with one hand," he bit out. Ichigo knew that he knew the biting incident was a snap misinterpretation on Grimmjow's part. Otherwise, Ichigo wouldn't have gotten his arm back.

The claws punched through the second layer, just briefly kissing skin before inky fur faded to smooth skin and blunt nails. Grimmjow turned his head up and away with disinterest, clearly pretending to find the reddening sky more pressing.

That was probably as close to conceding a point as Grimmjow could get.

The new problem was that without Grimmjow distracting him, Grimmjow was distracting him. Because now he had the time to focus on the warm weight of his arm. Or how Grimmjow was taking slightly shorter strides to accommodate for Ichigo. Because even though Grimmjow wasn't that much taller, his legs were longer. Like all the extra height was stored there and another inch for good measure. And, wait, didn't his boots have a bit of a heel to them? The tall asshole didn't need it but damn, if he didn't make it look good.

Well, at least every person they passed looked suitably scandalized now.

This week was going to be not only long but terrible for Ichigo's health.

  
  


***

  
  


When Rukia saw them, Ichigo instantly knew that she knew that they were as fake as Aizen had been when he was walking around Seireitei. Her purple eyes dragged over them before she met Ichigo's with one slim brow raised that said, ' _Really?_ '

Grimmjow clicked his teeth in annoyance, digging his fingers into the front of Ichigo's uniform. Ichigo tried not to flush with embarrassment, mentally preparing himself to run mediator between the two. Understandably, Rukia was and probably never would be keen to warm up to Grimmjow after the whole shoving his hand in her guts introduction. Grimmjow was, well, Grimmjow. Unless Rukia pulled her sword on him about it, he didn't give a shit.

"Shrimp," Grimmjow acknowledged the second they were within speaking distance.

Rukia's glare was icy, "Blue man group reject." Oh, goddammit.

Grimmjow's beginnings of a smirk dropped. Then, his arm dropped before his hands started patting at Ichigo's hips for his phone. Rummaging for the miraculous little box that could fill gaps in Grimmjow's knowledge with the power of the internet. Usually, Grimmjow held out his hand and demanded the phone, but dropping their boundaries for the week was going to lead to shit like this, apparently.

Ichigo slapped his hands away, "The internet doesn't work in Soul Society."

Grimmjow shoved his hand in Ichigo's pocket anyway, "Why not?" There were a few seconds of him rustling around in there, getting _way_ too close to certain areas for Ichigo's sanity, before he triumphantly pulled out his prize.

"Same reason it doesn't work in Hueco Mundo, dumbass," Ichigo snapped at him, narrowing his eyes as Grimmjow tried to open his phone. He'd changed the passcode again.

Grimmjow realized the problem quickly enough. He shot Ichigo a leer that said, ' _Oh, very cute_.' Then, somehow, once again, the arrancar figured out the new code in under three tries. Ichigo hadn't even put his usual fifteen somewhere in this one. He growled in frustration because he couldn't figure the fuck out how Grimmjow kept doing that.

The arrancar made a disgusted noise at the lack of bars before opening his favorite mobile game to see if Ichigo had beaten his high score. He had, thank the soul king's desiccated carcass. Nothing distracted Grimmjow immediately like competition. Hopefully, long enough that he could talk to Rukia without them trading any more barbs.

Rukia watched this entire exchange wordlessly. She looked like she wanted to ask something or maybe just voice an opinion but seemed to think better of it. Instead, she held up a key attached to a wooden plague that made Ichigo's guts turn churn acid.

"The house key that you keep refusing to take from me," Rukia huffed, "I think you can handle it for five days before forcing it back on me, hm?"

Ichigo met her eyes, "Did you do the other things I asked too?"

She scoffed, "Of course."

"You have a house?" Grimmjow had fixed a mystified stare on the key, thumbs still hovering over the touchscreen of his stolen phone.

Rukia stood up a little straighter, "Yes, he does! It's one of the boons Soul Society awarded to him for his service in the war."

"I fought in the war, and I sure as shit didn't get a house," Grimmjow pointed out in a tone that suggested he didn't really want or care about the house itself. But something about it bothered him. Probably Soul Society being run by a bunch of washed-up prejudiced old farts. Ones they had to pull a fake dating scheme on just to keep somewhat peaceable relations with.

Ichigo groaned and dragged his hand down his face. "Take mine then," he said in a flat tone that didn't even have a hint of a joke to it. Perhaps, he might still be a touch bitter about the whole 'having his powers returned just to fight a war' thing. If a touch was equated to how hard Grimmjow was capable of punching Ichigo in the face.

"Ichigo!"

Grimmjow didn't waste any time snagging the key out of Rukia's fingers. He twirled the ring around his index finger a few times, throwing Ichigo a half-lidded look that screamed trouble. Then, he turned back to Rukia to say in a borderline sultry tone, "Not even married yet, and he's already giving me a whole ass house to be every shinigami's nightmare neighbor. Ain't he sweet?" Ichigo couldn't see the maniac smile but, fuck, could he hear it. Being called _sweet_ by Grimmjow was wrong on every fucking level, but especially the one where Ichigo liked it a little bit.

Grimmjow shoved one hand in his pocket, then sauntered down the pathway to Ichigo's (his?) house with a madman's cackle. Ichigo could practically imagine his neighbors shooing the young and elderly indoors already. Wait, was Byakuya nearby at all? The stick up his ass would lodge itself far enough to send him to the moon.

Rukia hit him on the elbow, "Don't encourage him!"

"As opposed to…?" Ichigo rubbed at the spot, "Discouraging him actually encourages him more, you know. He's a cat in a man's body."

"A cat?" Rukia's face scrunched up.

"Wait, have you seen his resurrección?"

She shook her head.

"Imagine if a cat, the genre of glam rock, and an eighties fitness instructor had a fucked up child that can shoot bombs out of his elbows." Ichigo moved his hands in a way that did not express those concepts at all. Except for how Grimmjow shot bombs out of his elbow, that one was accurate.

Rukia's blank expression showed she didn't have the pop culture necessary to connect any of those references. Yet, she somehow knew what the Blue Man Group was? Unbelievable.

Another moment later, she shook her head ruefully, "Ichigo, you have terrible taste in men."

Ichigo's cheeks flamed, eyes flicking to where Grimmjow was fiddling with the house door, "Shut up!"

Rukia tucked her hair behind her ears with both hands. Her signal for 'people listening.' Ichigo tried to keep the line of his back from stiffening. She pulled a sorrowful expression as she lifted her arms, "Just terrible. Give me a hug so I can sympathetically pat your back."

Ichigo made a big show of groaning before doubling over to receive Rukia's hug. He felt her discreetly slip something into his pocket as she moved her arms. Rukia gave him a squeeze that he returned because, hey, hugging friends was nice. And hugging Rukia was like hugging a tiny animal, one that was liable to bite him and freeze his shoes to the ground if told that. She did actually pat Ichigo's back a little condescendingly.

She took a step back, "Well, I won't bother you anymore tonight. I may drop by in a few days just to see how things are. I'll bring Renji, too." Ichigo recognized that she was keeping things vague on purpose.

He nodded, waving a slightly stiff goodbye as he backed up towards the house, "Sure, Rukia, sounds great. Tell Renji I said hi."

Once inside the house entryway, Ichigo pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was small in size, so Ichigo surmised the message was short. Opening the note, absolutely desecrated with little drawings of Chappy the Rabbit, Ichigo read the contents.

_Squad Two Recon Team watching you two all week. Don't slip up. House is a safe zone. Kido silenced by master class. Likely to still peer in windows. Destroy note after reading._

This week was not only going to be long and terrible for his health, but Ichigo apparently had an unseen audience busting out the popcorn and getting ready to write weird reports about it the whole time.

Fantastic.


	2. Our House (In the Middle of the Spy-ring)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo and Grimmjow get used to being in each other's space. But, like, the barest amount. In the name of being spied on constantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long will I keep up this chapter title pattern? Who knows.
> 
> Slowed down my pace a bit with this one. But, I predict we'll pick things up again in the next chapter. 
> 
> My updates themselves may slow down for a while due to personal stuff. I'm not really what the kids call okay, but I will be with time and effort.
> 
> Anyway, even if things are a bit tough right now, I'm going to keep writing because I enjoy it and enjoy that other people love my writing. So, thank you, everyone, for your enthusiasm and kindness 💙

The house was traditional in style, as was everything in Seireitei. Tatami mat floors, sliding panels, low tables, zabuton, even a traditional kitchen outfitted with a kamado stove. And, most notably to Ichigo, it was on the small side. Especially when considering the size of the estate they'd initially been trying to force on him. That didn't even touch the matter of nobility titles they'd attempted to stick on him either. All soundly rejected, Ichigo was smart enough to see an obvious leash when he was slapped across the face with it these days. 

Those rejections had reasonably pissed off a lot of people. Specifically, a lot of important people, not that Ichigo cared. The house was just a scrap thrown at him for Seireitei to maintain appearances. Rukia had had to end up accepting it on his behalf, just to get them off his case. She was a lot more familiar with this sort of thing than he was, so Ichigo couldn't bring himself to be too mad about it. He'd had his fun.

Still, saying no to every offer, prize, and so-called honor for over a year sure had felt good. To grin fake smiles that were nothing but  _ teeth. _ At the people who'd only deemed him worthy of getting his power returned so he could fight in yet another war brewing on the horizon. 

It made them, every noble and stuck-up bureaucrat of Central 46, very nervous that the young man who'd defeated a god didn't seem to like them very much. Or that the Gotei 13, their own military, probably wouldn't be willing to raise a sword against Ichigo when push came to shove. Not because of his power but simply because he was  _ well-liked. _

Ichigo relished in it. Just a bit of petty revenge, as a treat.

Besides, just because he  _ had _ this house didn't mean Ichigo would upkeep it to his neighbors' standards. It wasn't like he was living in it full-time, yet, on account of being alive. So, Ichigo definitely let certain things go untended, despite Rukia's offers of hired help. The back garden, for example, was no doubt an overgrown mess at this point. And there were spots everywhere that definitely could use a splash of paint. Some of the tatami mats were worn in several places from the previous occupants, as were many of the home's various features. Sliding panel doors often got stuck in worn grooves. And there was a fine layer of dust coating every hard surface. The scent that permeated the air could be described as cedarwood on a beautiful day and as musty damp on rainy ones.

Some part of Ichigo looked forward to fixing it up one day. But that day was, hopefully, a long way off. For now, it was just a place to crash during a rare visit to Soul Society. Although, this was the first time he'd ever used it, to be honest. Often, Ichigo stayed with the rowdy Shibas on the outskirts whenever he was in Spirit Society. Family bonding and all that.

Ichigo began pulling off his sandals and tabi, wondering where Grimmjow had wandered off to. Jokingly hoping he hadn't started pissing all over the furniture or something to mark his territory. To his surprise, the arrancar had taken off his boots in the entryway without having to be asked. 

An explosive sneeze followed up by two more answered his question. Then, another group of three sneezes. Curiosity piqued, Ichigo headed towards the sound, entering the main room just in time to see Grimmjow let loose another round of sneezing.

Grimmjow's sneezes were just as loud and abrasive as the rest of his personality. He was the type that screwed his whole face shut, tensed every muscle in his body, and then let loose. And he always, always sneezed three times in a row, one after the other. It was kind of charming.

The arrancar glared at him through watery eyes. For one shocked second, Ichigo thought he might be crying. Then, Grimmjow opened his mouth to say something before immediately ducking his face into the crook of his elbow and sneezing again and again and again. The teeth of his bone mask were starting to clack together from the violent force of it. Seemingly rendered incapable of speech, Grimmjow stretched down to swipe his finger across the low table, drawing a clear line in the dust and holding it up towards Ichigo in an accusing fashion. It was, of course, his middle finger.

Then, it clicked.

"Are you…allergic to dust?" Ichigo asked voice coated in several layers of shocked disbelief. Karin was also allergic to dust, so he knew the symptoms and that it was caused by dust mites specifically. But, really, he was having a tough time believing what he was seeing. The concept of Grimmjow having a common allergy on top of, well, everything about him was almost absurd.

Also, it raised several questions about the soul cycles of dust mites specifically. Ichigo was sure he would ponder  _ that _ while staring at a wall after several internet searches later. Did they not exist in Hueco Mundo? Was that because of climate or because dust mites didn't experience despair? It was borderline distressing in an existential sort of way. For now, though, he shelved it. 

"Fuck." Three more sneezes. "You." Translated from Grimmjow's speech to the average person, that was a solid 'Yes.' The arrancar started to take off his jacket with the energy of an offended mobster offered a too small payment.

"How did you go through like three evolutions and still maintain a dust allergy?" Ichigo opened his mouth, directly inserting his own metaphorical foot. 

Luckily, Grimmjow put the jacket over his mouth and nose, removing biting from his list of angry responses. There was a slight considering twitch to the hand not occupied, but no claws sprang forth. Instead, he got a defensive, slightly muffled, "Fuck if I know!" There was the barest trickle of genuine distress hidden in his tone. 

Ichigo gave his surroundings a once-over with a newly critical eye. Precisely at the thick layers of dust that coated every surface due to his own stubborn agenda more than anything. Oh, and there it was, guilt his old friend had arrived on the scene to gnaw at his rib bones like starving dogs.

Handing off Rukia's note to Grimmjow to read, Ichigo immediately went to find cleaning supplies that he had no doubt were around. Rukia was willing to leave things be to a certain extent, but he figured she'd left the tools he'd need to get this place in order. Sure enough, Ichigo found them in a closet with a note that said, ' _ If the inside of this house is still filthy when I visit, I'm going to kick you in the shin. -R _ '

Ichigo grabbed a bit of everything, including a cloth that Grimmjow could tie over his face.

When he returned to the main room, Grimmjow was balefully glaring at the note in his bare palm, now on fire and burning slowly, wisps of smoke twisting through the air like snakes. Common fire apparently had no effect on hierro. The look he chose to give Ichigo over the blackening scrap really said it all, even with half his face still covered. Clearly, the sentiment was ' _ Fuck Soul Society and the high horse they rode in on.' _ But, really, any order of words Ichigo could come up with was downright tame compared to the literal gas flame of anger that Grimmjow was cradling in his palm, reflected fire flickering in his dark pupils.

"Can you tell where the silencing kidos boundaries are?" Ichigo asked, partly out of a need to know and somewhat to distract Grimmjow from the idea of burning the house down out of spite.

Grimmjow gave the fire one last lengthy considering stare before slowly curling his fingers around the paper to put it out. As if he hadn't just been contemplating arson, Grimmjow tilted his head and closed his eyes. Probably focusing in on their surroundings with his pesquisa, judging by the slight furrow of concentration to his brow. Ichigo waited patiently. Grimmjow was his direct opposite when it came to sensing, well, anything. It didn't matter if it was smells, sound, spiritual, etc. To make a comparison, Ichigo was reasonably sure he walked around with three layers of bubble wrap on his senses. In contrast, Grimmjow could feasibly sense a ghost dog shitting three blocks away if he so chose.

Which he had apparently, once. Ichigo didn't have any way to prove if Grimmjow had been pulling his leg on that one. 

Grimmjow straightened his back, fingers of his hand crushing ashy blackened flakes that floated thoughtlessly to the floor. Ichigo watched their descent with a flash of irritation. He was going to clean anyway, so whatever. 

Grimmjow wiped his sooty hand on his thigh, "It's limited to just the house. And there's definitely a whole group of pricks scattered across the block in weird spots. Probably more in hidden spots in disguise." 

Ichigo hummed in acknowledgment. That was about what he'd expected, to be fair—just a bunch of assholes being paid to hover and take notes in their little pervert journals. 

He looked at Grimmjow, "So, how much do you know about cleaning, and how willing are you to help do it, so you don't get your ass kicked by your own lungs?" Ichigo held out the cloth wrap for Grimmjow's face around his armful of cleaning supplies like the world's shittiest olive branch. 

Grimmjow drilled a poisonous glare into the offered mask, blue eyes trailing up Ichigo's arm to give his face the same treatment before snatching the cloth roughly out of his hand.

About as close to consensus as Ichigo would get, really. 

***

Willing to clean, however self-motivated and reluctant Grimmjow actually was, did not mean that he knew  _ how _ to clean. That knowledge had been long blasted out of his brain somewhere along the evolutionary line, unlike the dust allergy. This had led to a lot of Grimmjow watching Ichigo clean, claiming he was learning. And, to his credit, Grimmjow did seem to be making an effort. His eyes were surprisingly serious above his makeshift mask.

The problem was Ichigo. Or rather, Grimmjow hovering in Ichigo's space when every hair on his body felt too aware of his presence was the problem. Like the arrancar was a magnetic pole and the tiny filaments were individual needles of a compass. Being watched closely, well outside of the context of anticipating a fight, was also not helping matters.

So, when Grimmjow sneezed a few times, even with the mask on, Ichigo took it as an opportunity to assign him a different task. He ended up dragging all the bedding out of a closet. Banishing Grimmjow to the backyard's clothing line to smack the dust out of it with a stick. That required little instruction beyond 'please don't hit anything hard enough that it's unusable.'

The backyard was indeed as overgrown as Ichigo had encouraged it to get. The grass was up to Grimmjow's knees. He'd spent about five minutes merely walking around, fascinated by how it felt on his bare feet apparently, before getting to his task. 

They'd opened all the sliding panels on the back of the house. Save for an inner one smack in the middle that seemed ready to remain stuck in place even under the duress of Grimmjow swearing at it. If it wasn't something that kept the local goon squad from peering in, then Ichigo had no doubt it would be splinters by now. Regardless, Ichigo was able to keep at least the corner of his eye on Grimmjow, more worried about the possible trained assassins surrounding his house than he'd admit. Leaning more towards concerned about  _ them _ if they tried to attack Grimmjow than he was for the man himself.

Ichigo shook his head to clear his anxious thoughts, tying his uniform's sleeves back to keep them clear of debris. The only thing Grimmjow was going to beat up tonight was the bedding with a stick. With an increasing amount of borderline vicious enthusiasm from what Ichigo could see. It was fine.

For the next good twenty minutes, Ichigo managed to successfully clean most of the dust out of the house. It didn't take as long as he thought it would due to the small number of hard surfaces in an already tiny place. He was strongly considered wiping the old kamado stove clean of soot when the sound of knees thudding onto the engawa caught his attention.

He turned to see Grimmjow peering at him around the stuck panel, expression unreadable with the cloth on his face, clearly leaning into the house to take advantage of the silencing kido.

"There's only one futon."

Ichigo frowned, "Damn. I thought I'd at least have one for guests somewhere." His brow furrowed further as he tried to rattle a solution out of his brain. There was no way he was going to make Grimmjow sleep on the fucking floor. "Maybe I can borrow one from a neighbor?" If they didn't completely hate his guts from how he kept this place, that might work.

Grimmjow shifted his knees and hands on the floor, eyebrows pinched together in what might've been his uncomfortable face. "I didn't say the futon was a single person one," he replied.

Looking past him to the clothesline, Ichigo could see it fluttering slightly with the breeze like a soft flag of doom. Mocking all life decisions that had landed him in this ongoing gay disaster that was already testing threads of his sanity. Likely to get blood on it at least once if a certain blue-haired asshole had anything to do with it. A two-person futon.

"Oh."

Abruptly, he was deeply suspicious of Rukia. Because he could see her deciding that this was obviously helping, with their scheme or Ichigo's actual attraction, maybe both.  _ Or _ , even more deviously, the squad of assholes squatting around his property had switched his linen closet in a malicious act of subterfuge. There wasn't a tangible way for him to eliminate either possibility. He'd never looked in this house's linen closet before today. 

It clicked in Ichigo's brain that it would be highly suspect of him to go asking for another futon when he was, supposedly, in a relationship with Grimmjow. And judging from how deathly quiet Grimmjow had become, he'd already reached that conclusion himself several minutes ago. But he was staring like he expected more of a response out of Ichigo.

"Okay."

It was the closest to a consensus that Ichigo could currently push his short-circuiting brain.

***

Ichigo wasn't hiding like a big, gay chicken.

He was taking a  _ relaxing _ bath in the house's surprisingly charming bathroom. It was good sized with a large, wooden ofuro that smelled like fresh pine when he'd filled it with hot water. Plumbing was apparently the one modern amenity that Seireitei had. Or maybe plumbing was an older technology than he thought? History wasn't his strong point when he was in school. It didn't matter. Ichigo was having a nice long hot soak after an equally long day.

The fact that he'd slipped in here, after confirming that Grimmjow seemed more interested in drinking sake, watching the horizon, and enjoying his new ability to breath clearly, had  _ nothing _ to do with it. Or that the neatly rolled pile of the futon, waiting patiently with an air of menace, kept catching his eye as he drank his own sake had  _ nothing _ to do with it. The way alcohol always seemed to bleed some of the violent tension out of Grimmjow's spine in an attractive way had  _ nothing _ to do with it. Or that they both knew that Grimmjow was just a bit more accepting of people in his space with alcohol in his system, making this all preemptive strategy, definitely had absolutely goddamn  _ nothing _ to do with it.

He was totally hiding in the bath like a big, gay chicken.

Ichigo pulled his knees to his chest, dropped his forehead on them, and let out a world-weary sigh that escaped mostly as bubbles. Neck-level deep tubs weren't exactly ideal for brooding. He kept his face there until his lungs were wholly deflated of air, held his breath for a few clarifying seconds, then lifted his head back to rest on the edge of the tub. Ichigo pulled in a long breath of humid bathroom air as he scowled at the ceiling.

Really, this whole thing would be a lot easier if it had happened two, three weeks ago.

***

The Incident of Gay Crisis, as Ichigo had been referring to it in his head, occurred where most disasters from the three worlds cropped up: Urahara's shop. The crisis in question wasn't about Ichigo receiving sudden lucidity that he was into men after about twenty-two years of life. He'd taken care of that aspect years ago. He'd come out, received support, etc. Honestly, given everything that preceded that, the people in his life were ecstatic that he'd had a typical human problem of self-discovery rather than found a new world-threatening enemy to stop. Rude of them to think that Ichigo couldn't fit both into his itinerary if he put his mind to it.

Weird formative years aside, knowing something didn't stop that age-old tried and true trick of complete inner denial. It really shouldn't have been that big of a shock that Ichigo had apparently been using it full force around Grimmjow. But, it had been. It had been a beautifully well-constructed fort of denial, one that had held firm for many years. Walls of steel and stone that'd he'd built out of facts like 'Grimmjow wants to kill me' or 'Grimmjow steals food off my plate.' Rational, undeniable things to force his interest into a small box deep in his subconscious. It was a damn tragedy that that box had, apparently, had a key.

One shitty half-drunk compliment.

Ichigo dragged a hand slowly down his face at the memory. They'd been drinking with the usual suspects: Urahara, Yoruichi, Tessai. And a few unusual additions in the name of, supposedly, maintaining ongoing peace between the three worlds? Grimmjow was a regular enough 'representative' of Las Noches that it could be argued that most of their drinking sessions fell under that. Chad had had a free day and brought along Riruka. All well and good, Grimmjow liked both of them well enough. And, to Ichigo's surprise, Ishida had apparently gotten over enough lingering guilt to also make an appearance. That had started off a bit tense given all of Grimmjow's previous experience with quincies. Ichigo had actively made sure to sit between the two of them to prevent a possible homicide.

Thankfully, Ichigo's mere existence seemed to keep them in the realm of bickering and half-hearted jabs. While competing for his own attention in a way that had had Ichigo drinking a fair amount more than he usually did. Which, of course, led to both of their competitive asses drinking way more as well. It was a win lose fail sort of situation. And his recollection of that night was flashes of sensation or emotion coming through with the most clarity.

For example, Ichigo had crystal clear recall of a memory of Ishida slumped to the table, holding his hand in a death grip, while sobbing out an apology. One that he'd already made several times. At the same time, Grimmjow had been leaning against Ichigo pretty heavily while saying, 'You fucking better be!' Ichigo was dead certain that Grimmjow had had absolutely no context whatsoever for what was upsetting Ishida. Luckily, both of them had shut up once Tessai, the indisputable saint of the shoten, set some snacks on the table.

In his next blink of awareness, they'd somehow moved on to talking about Ichigo's mixed cocktail of spiritual heritage. Ichigo could only guess at how they'd gotten there. Grimmjow asking about quincies? Riruka bringing up fullbringers? His own self asking Urahara how the vizards in the living world were doing? However they'd gotten there, the result was Ichigo explaining in-depth to a rapt and drunk Grimmjow how his parents had met and Aizen's role in that whole bullshit.

And Grimmjow had, well. Made a noise Ichigo hadn't ever expected from him.

He'd giggled.

Not a snicker. Or a chuckle. Not even a malicious low-toned snort of amusement.

A fucking giggle.

"What the hell is so funny?" Ichigo had asked, about half sure he was blacked out and dreaming.

Grimmjow had knocked back the rest of his drink before slurring out, "The idea that you were Aizen's goddamn petri-dish accident that came back to bite him in the ass is what's fuckin' funny. And if you'd had to do what that know-it-all prick said for any amount of time, you'd be in fuckin' stitches too." Then, he'd given Ichigo an uncharacteristic friendly slap to the back, "Congrats on being the perfect happy accident, Kurosaki!"

The broad smile that followed, dimple tucked in Grimmjow's one visible cheek, had had so much warmth and nothing of his usual malice. It was so clearly meant to be taken as nothing less than a well-meaning compliment in a fit of complete drunken honesty.

The fortress of denial's foundation had instantly crumpled, whole damn structure toppling into the sea of horrible, dawning drunk realization.

And then Ishida had thrown up on his lap.

***

"I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment," Ichigo morosely quoted the old bard to the ungrudging ceiling. Fully knowing that drunken mistakes would probably happen again. Which play was it from? Othello, maybe?

"Do you think because you are virtuous that there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Another voice countered, sounding expressly offended.

Ichigo whipped his head around to see Grimmjow slinging his jacket on the half wall between the changing and bathing areas. He hadn't heard him enter at all. His cheeks were flushed pink, and his gaze was on the hazy side. There was a clink of metal as his clumsy fingers started going after his belts.

"Did you…just quote Shakespeare?" Ichigo asked, squinting to make sure it was Grimmjow and not a Squad 2 goon in a wig. The line was from an entirely different play; Ichigo was confident, even if he couldn't recall the title. It also didn't fucking matter because Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez had apparently had a Shakespeare quote rattling around in his head this whole time as a weapon against Ichigo specifically.

Grimmjow paused; Pantera pulled halfway from his body with the belts attached. He gave the wall a long stare, swaying slightly on his feet from alcohol. He grunted out noncommittally, "I guess so." More metal jingling as Grimmjow gently set Pantera down in some unseen location.

"Since when do you know any Shakespeare?" Ichigo pressed him further.

"Since…ten seconds ago?" Grimmjow started fumbling for the zipper of his catsuit, "Heard ya say that other thing, and it popped in my head. Was gonna call ya a boring shitstain for fuckin' off 'stead of drinking more 'fore that slipped out."

"What? Did you get lonely?" Ichigo taunted in a complete monotone.

Grimmjow shot him a dirty look as he finally managed to get his fingers on the metal tag of the zipper, yanking it down with an announcing hiss.

All that Shakespeare talk had been entirely too distracting. Because it was right around then that it hit Ichigo that Grimmjow was clearly getting naked.

"What are you doing?" Ichigo hissed out, trying to keep his heart from ramming out of his chest and fleeing down the street.

Grimmjow's face twisted with confusion, one shoulder already nearly out of the catsuit, "Takin' a fuckin' bath? Same as you, dipshit."

"At the same time?"

"We share the hot springs all the time. You've already seen my dick, ya fuckin' prude," Grimmjow told him off haughtily, pulling his catsuit down to his waist before dipping out of sight to peel it off his legs.

Ichigo had two inescapable problems with this train speeding towards his limp, hogtied corpse. One, the tub was just barely spacious enough for two people, which was many worlds different from the open-air hot spring in Urahara's basement. And two, Grimmjow, like every other arrancar that Ichigo knew, had zero levels of shame about being naked or being seen naked. If anything, clothes were viewed as a convenient way to attach a sword to themselves and keep sand off their skin. So, if he bailed, Grimmjow would definitely find it hilarious until the day one of them died.

Really, the best he could do was turn back in the other direction. And hope Grimmjow didn't take it as an invitation to a surprise attack. He closed his eyes in an attempt to relax, even if his ears were trained on every noise behind him. There was the sound of an audible thwack and loud, irritated swearing like maybe Grimmjow had hit his elbow on something.

It was unlikely that he'd bruised anything through his hierro, the drama king.

Moments later, a hand engulfed the back of Ichigo's neck, lightly squeezing.

"Dead."

Ichigo cracked an eye warily. Grimmjow was looming over him with what he could only describe as a look of deep, drunk disapproval. No actual murderous intent currently present in his misty blue irises. And everything above his waist was very much on display at a new, intriguing angle.

"Alright, what spoils are you claiming now that you've viciously murdered me in my own bathtub?" Ichigo asked sardonically.

Instead of an exciting response to Ichigo's question, Grimmjow instantly declared, "The washbowl."

"It's by your foot."

"Oh," Grimmjow released his neck to bend over after his fake murder trophy.

Ichigo closed his eyes again. There was a creak of wood as Grimmjow seated himself on the wash stool. A disturbance of ripples hit Ichigo's chest as Grimmjow began taking water out of the tub to douse himself with.

Things were quiet for a blissful yet simultaneously troubling two minutes, save for the sound of Grimmjow giving the soap bar a curious sniff before dragging it over his skin.

Grimmjow broke the silence, "Did you open the window?"

There was one window in the bathroom, small and high off the ground to prevent people from peeking in, with curtains that drew over it for added privacy. Ichigo opened his eyes to find the window wide open, letting out steam and curtains missing entirely from the rod. With the added certainty that window height meant nothing to their observers, Ichigo responded, "No."

"Huh."

"Yep."

They both stared at the empty curtain rod as if they might wish privacy back into existence. Or guilt a member of Squad 2 into returning it with a polite 'sorry about that we'll all fuck off to the ends of existence now.'

"We could put my jacket through the rod," Grimmjow offered, washing suds away with a tip of the washbowl.

"Not a bad idea. Until they steal your jacket and your stubborn ass decides violence is the best and only way to get it back."

"Tch."

It was the noise of a man who'd been hoping for exactly that, obviously. Ichigo glared at the back of his blue head out of the corner of his eye. Did he really think that Ichigo was that stupid?

Grimmjow twisted away from the window, crossing his arms on the lip of the tub to rest his chin. "Well, fuckin' now what?"

His hair was completely loose from its usual rebellious style. Framing his face in heavy wet strands that got stuck in his eyelashes and mask teeth. It made him look less angry, more like a mopey person who'd just gotten over an annoying headache. Maybe it was because his cranky little eyebrows were mostly obscured.

Ichigo regarded him with the same amount of caution that one might give a poisonous snake in a tree. Especially so for the little droplets of water trailing slowly across his sharp features. "What do you mean now what?"

That produced an odd expression. Even drunk, Grimmjow could manage his 'Kurosaki, you are so stupid' face with practiced ease. But, there were undertones of discomfort in the wrinkled lines between his eyebrows. Ichigo waited him out, almost seeing the gears of his brain backtrack to his original thought to organize into a statement.

He landed on hissing out aggressively, "You know why they're watchin' us."

Ichigo kept waiting. The fact that this was like pulling teeth for Grimmjow to mention out loud was his entertainment for the night. He raised one eyebrow as if to say, 'And?'

Grimmjow ground his teeth audibly for a few seconds. He considered the nails on one of his hands, running the pad of his thumb ruefully over the blunt edges. His bare cheek lolled onto his forearm as he did, squishing one eye to a narrow, watchful squint. His voice became much quieter, bothered, and a tad mistrustful, "They're watchin' to see if we do any… _ couple shit _ ."

"Yeah? We knew that hours ago."

"Didn't expect to start again 'til tomorrow."

Ichigo pointed out, "Grimmjow, we're naked in the same bathroom. By shinigami standards, that's pretty damn intimate. It's fine."

Grimmjow scoffed with the unearned confidence that only someone several drinks into a night taking or issuing a challenge could produce. All air whistling through the teeth in one derisive huff. "We can fuckin' do better than that."

That competitive streak that Grimmjow had shown earlier when he'd slung his arm across his shoulders was back. And, apparently, not a fluke if it was popping up again when he was intoxicated.

Ichigo nodded sagely, rubbing his chin as if Grimmjow had made an excellent point rather than tested his already fraying sanity. In reality, he was trying to drag his traitorous brain out of the gutter into, well, anywhere else. A dark alley to be stabbed would be preferable.

He needed to think of something that read as intimate and keep his own feelings well hidden so that Grimmjow didn't actually murder him in a bathtub.

Ah.

"I could wash your hair for you."

Grimmjow looked sincerely taken aback, "What?"

"Think about it," Ichigo told him because he knew Grimmjow had a working brain. And if he had to try to explain this, he would get lost in the weeds very quickly.

A long moment of silence passed, blue eyes drilling into him the entire time.

Grimmjow made a noise somewhere between a growl and frustrated whine, "Fine."

Ichigo nodded and turned to retrieve the shampoo bar off a shelf, resolutely ignoring his heart performing a ten-point perfect backflip in his chest.

"If you go for my throat, I'm going to show you what your larynx looks like," Grimmjow warned in a low, defensive tone. When Ichigo turned back to face him, the arrancar was regarding the shampoo in his hand like a live grenade.

"Understandable," Ichigo hummed before just going for it by rubbing the bar roughly across the top of his blue head a few times.

Grimmjow went as stiff as a board, hands digging into the tub's wood with a noticeable creak and chin slipping the slightest centimeter inward. His gaze was focused and unblinking, watching for Ichigo going after his jugular, maybe.

"Again," Ichigo reiterated as he set the shampoo bar aside, "sneak attacks are not my style. If I wanted to kill you, I might send you an invitation on fancy paper that says something like 'Say goodbye to your spine, asshole.' Really tailor it to your terrible tastes." Unceremoniously, Ichigo dug his fingers into thick, blue hair, "Also, with what claws and teeth, huh? I'd have to hollowify for that which takes a few seconds longer than I'd stay breathing."

He worked little circles with his fingers across Grimmjow's scalp as he rambled off nonsense. To his surprise, it felt like some hair product was dissolving under his hands. Some part of him had thought maybe Grimmjow's hair was just like that due to hollow bullshit or sheer force of personality. What was in Hueco Mundo that he could be using for gel? Blood? Spinal fluid? The snot and tears of his enemies that had begged for their lives?

The turn of Ichigo's fingers slowed, switching to dragging his fingertips up from the nape of Grimmjow's neck to the top of his head as he tried to figure it out. Maybe Aizen had had a stash of hair gel somewhere in Las Noches that Grimmjow had claimed? Or perhaps Urahara was supplying?

He was so absorbed in figuring out this new mystery that Ichigo didn't notice the subtle draining of tension from Grimmjow's shoulders. Or the slow drooping of eyelids. Or the heavy weight of one arm leaving the lip of the tub to dangle, fingertips barely grazing the floor.

Ichigo did notice when Grimmjow hit the floor like a drunk rock, sending the wash stool he'd been sitting on loudly skidding away from himself with a bang. He froze, fingers still full of suds where a head had been. Grimmjow was wide-eyed and bewildered, already sitting up from the splat of foam his head had left behind.

"Did you just fall asleep?" Ichigo tried very, very hard to keep himself from laughing. The effort was a complete failure. He leaned his head against the edge of the tub, shoulders shaking, trying not to let out the undignified wheeze that leaked out of his lungs.

Part of him expected violence in the form of an attempted drowning, but, fuck, Ichigo couldn't stop laughing now that he'd started.

His laughing bout turned into a coughing fit when the water level rose suddenly with another body's addition, overflowing in streams onto the bathroom floor. Knees knocked harshly against his own underwater. Ichigo sat up to see Grimmjow sitting opposite himself, filling the washbowl with a look of contempt.

"Hey, you're supposed to rinse off outside the bath."

"I know that," Grimmjow sneered and dumped the water on his head, sending shampoo soap in trailing lines down the planes of his chest. And into the previously clean bathwater.

"Gross-" Ichigo didn't get out much more than that before water was slung into his own face. He swore, trying to rub water and soap out of his eyes. When he managed that, it was just in time to see Grimmjow reach over and place the upturned washbowl on Ichigo's head like a makeshift crown. The side of the bowl completely obscured his vision.

"Why." Ichigo said in his most resigned, annoyed tone.

"Cause now we both look stupid."

"That was a fact before we set foot in this bathroom."

A tinging noise reverberated through the bowl, presumably, from Grimmjow flicking his fingernail against it. Ichigo scowled but crossed his arms and leaned back against the tub wall rather than remove it. He didn't need a mirror to know he looked ridiculous. But, with the other option being 'Confront the naked truth (ha) of sharing a small bathtub with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez,' Ichigo suddenly found himself very comfortable with his new look. King chickenshit, his court would call him.

Blinded as he was, Ichigo didn't notice Grimmjow leaning into his space until his hands were gripping his jaw, pulling him forward a bit. Every spot of skin touched, including the pad of a thumb pressing down on the center of his lips, felt like sparks of fire. Then, the edge of the washbowl dug painfully into the bridge of his nose as another brushed against it. There was a long sigh of breath against his face that smelled like sake.

Then, Grimmjow was gone.

It took a full ten seconds for Ichigo to reboot his brain.

Ichigo lifted the bowl a few inches off his head. He took in the sight of Grimmjow leaned back against his side of the tub, arms casually resting on the edges, with his eyes closed. Like he hadn't just done something completely insane enough to make Ichigo blush all the way down to his neck.

"What the hell was that?" Ichigo whisper yelled, voice cracking once.

Grimmjow cracked one sleepy blue eye, "A stage kiss?"

"Since when do you know what that is? And  _ why _ ?" Ichigo breathed out, trying not to sound like his brain was full of lit lighter fluid.

The one blue eye drifted towards the ceiling in apparent thought, "Since…just now?" Ichigo wanted to call bullshit, but the wavering lilt to the end of Grimmjow's sentence suggested honesty. Grimmjow continued, "And because as soon as I was the slightest bit of an asshole by throwing  _ harmless _ water at you, the pervert squad got closer to the house. After I did that, they backed off."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"So, you admit you're an asshole?"

"…Fuck off," The eye closed again, shutting down the conversation.

Ichigo let the washbowl fall back onto his head so that he could yell internally for a full, hopefully uninterrupted, ten minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every day I wake up and put Ichigo into a terrible situation just so I can laugh about it
> 
> anyway, if you want to follow me outside of ao3:
> 
> My tumblr    
>  My Twitter 


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